


Better Than Hope

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4808450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A total mush get-Hutch piece. Never posted because it's OTT, OOC emo, so read at your own risk!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Hope

 

 

Written: 1998

     “Hey, Tico, how long are we gonna be out here, man?”  The speaker shifted nervously, glancing both ways out of the alley.

     “I told you, brother, until we got a hit.  If I don’t dig up some bread for V, he ain’t gonna be too happy.”  Tico stuck his hands defiantly into his jacket pocket.

     “I know, I know, but--”

     “Shh.”  Tico waved the other teen silent.  “I hear somebody comin’.”  He pulled the newly-acquired gun out of his pocket, motioning the other to do the same.  After a long hesitation, Ricky did, holding it uncomfortably in his palm.  He opened his mouth to voice further doubts, when he heard the footsteps, too, and before he knew it, Tico was stepping out of the alley.

     “In here, mister.”

     The steps froze, and then slowly advanced into the alley, the tall man already having raised his hands unthreateningly.  Ricky tried not to look at him as Tico took care of business.

     “Empty your pockets.  Now!”

     The arms started lowering.

     “One hand!”

     The left arm went back up and the right drifted toward his pants pocket, pulling out his wallet.  “Look, boys--” the man started quietly, but Tico didn’t let him talk.

     “Shut up!”

     He did.  The wallet was stretched out to Ricky, who reluctantly took it, still not meeting their victim’s wary blue eyes, and then the man reached for his jacket.  Suddenly, the bulge there clicked in Ricky’s mind.  

     “Tico, he’s goin’ for his gun!”

     Tico looked as startled as Ricky felt, and then the gun went off, still pointed roughly at the man’s head.  He fell like a dead weight.  Dead.  Ricky thought he was going to be sick.  

     Tico’s voice was no steadier.  “Jeez. . . C’mon, man, let’s get out of here.”  He hesitated long enough to reach into the man’s jacket and pull out a handgun that looked huge to Ricky, and Tico whistled in appreciation before sticking into his own pocket and taking off.  With a long second glance at the still man, Ricky followed him.  

     Golden hair mixed with bright red blood was the only color in the dark alley behind them.

     Starsky frowned as he walked through the empty apartment.  There had been no answer to his cheery good-morning, and now he knew the reason why.  No Hutch.  No sign he’d been there that night, either.  That in itself wasn’t cause for alarm, not while Hutch was involved as he was with what’s-her-name, but a quick call revealed she hadn’t seen him, either, and Hutch wasn’t the kind to two-time.  Besides, he knew Starsky was to pick him up for work that morning. . .  

     The uncomfortable prickle on the back of his neck grew into outright discomfort.  Starsky turned back to the empty apartment, this time beginning to search it like a detective at a crime scene.  

     Hutch gave a silent groan as light that felt too bright assaulted his eyelids.  Even the thought of opening them was excruciating, and he let it be for now, trying his other senses.  Muted noises he couldn’t identify.  The rotten smell of an unkept part of the city.  Very cold, very hard ground beneath him.  Something definitely wasn’t right.  

     He finally ventured to open his eyes just a little, but all they showed him were slippery grays.  In fact, any time he tried to concentrate on one of the odd shapes, they slid away, making him dizzy.  He closed his eyes again.

     A check of his gun revealed, surprisingly, no luck.  Next was the attempt to stand, and that was an even worse idea.  His body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, and lifting his head caused a drill of pain through his skull intense enough that he nearly blacked out again.  Hutch sagged back to the ground, exhausted at that much effort.  He wasn’t going anywhere.  

     “Help.”  The cry came out depressingly weak, hardly carrying to his own ears.  That wouldn’t get him anywhere, either.  Hutch finally gave up, slowly pulling his knees up to his chest to try to warm himself a little and fight off cold despair.  

     Putting together even that much thought was grueling, like trying to push flimsy paper through a thick wall of fog.  The paper kept floating away, and Hutch floated with it.  Starsky would come find him.  He always did.  He had to.  

     The memory was still fresh, and he didn’t fight it..  

_      Hutch was in hell.  There was no other name for the confusion of shapes around him, the fire that touched every nerve in his body, the whips of agony that seized up his insides.  It was beyond pain, in the shadowland of mindless misery where all he could do was curl up and wish for death to come.   _

_      But there was some comprehension left in him, and some stubborn, instinctive sense of survival.  And when he knew and understood enough to know that he was to be killed now, despite the greater part of him that longed for that end to the nightmare, he still lashed out, catching his tormentors off guard, and lurched away.   _

_      From one hell to another.  He had no idea what forms he was tripping over, which of the dark figures that loomed over him were his enemies.  He ran purely on memory, until his legs forgot even that much, and he curled up with a whimper, helpless, hopeless. _

_      The next thing he knew, he’d been found.  The little that was left of who he was begged for a quick end, for a release from the agony.  Then he was gasping for breath again as his body knotted up in exhausted torment, and it didn’t matter much anymore because he couldn’t bear this much longer. _

_      And then it was different.   _

_      He was jerked up, roughly enough that it hurt even when he didn’t think he could hurt any worse.  But there was something--no, someone--before him who he knew on some level.  And not one of demons who inflicted horrors on him.  This person gave him a sudden wash of peace, a release he’d almost forgotten about.  Panting, he stared at the spectre, trying to pull a name from his broken mind and failing.  A hand cradled his face for a moment, and it was the first touch he’d felt that had comforted instead of hurt.  He tried to stay still, save that moment. _

_      More tugging, and he dragged his eyes reluctantly from the figure, focusing wearily on the source of the pull.  A line of marks.  He wasn’t sure what they meant even though he knew he was supposed to know, but the sight still automatically filled him with bitter shame, washing away all the comfort.  And the loss was so much worse than before he’d had any at all.  He sobbed inside, descending back into his private abyss even as lightning struck through his body, forcing all the air from him, contorting him in the struggle to breathe and throw up at the same time.   _

_      He was falling, and then caught, and held.  Not restrained, but held, supported.  There was something warm against his stomach, easing his cramps enough that he could breathe a little, even as another spasm made him retch and groan.  But something warm was rubbing him, too, gentle circles that smoothed down the edges of every jagged emotion and sliver of pain..   _

_      “. . . junkie. . .”   _

_      The sounds rang in his head, and the mortification threatened again, but the warm circles distracted him, even as he retched once more, gasping in a solid scent that he knew.  His mind was too fragmented to recognize anyone around him, but this person was inside him, a piece of him, and his heart responded in instinctive recognition.       ‘Starsky’?   _

_      And, for the first time, he felt something he’d long given up on, something that made his eyes fill with tears that finally weren’t of pain.   _

_      Hope.   _

     Venice Place revealed very little, but Starsky stubbornly made a list of possibilities, anyway.  No forced entry, no wallet, no jacket.  Hutch had probably gone out somewhere and not returned.  But the squash was parked in front of the building, which meant he’d walked.  That left a moderate list of places: post office, cleaners, bank, store, restaurant, the beach.  And, of course, any other place Starsky didn’t know about.  He sighed.  

     Well, the post office would’ve been closed by the time they got off duty, so that wasn’t probable.  The refrigerator was stocked, and Starsky remembered that his partner had stopped off for groceries only the day before, so he also provisionally crossed that off.  None of the blond’s nicer clothes seemed to be missing, making the cleaners unlikely.  That left the bank, the beach, and any number of local restaurants.  And that, Starsky thought dismally, was assuming that Hutch hadn’t been kidnapped from his home or snatched out on the street.  But Hutch’s bank book wasn’t in its place, nor would the beach be hard to check, and there was already a Missing Officer out, thanks to Dobey.  It was only a matter of time.  They’d done it before and, if needed be, they’d do it again.  Starsky was determined to find his partner.  

     Locking the apartment carefully behind him, he set off to run his list down.  

     Back at Tico’s tiny one-room flat, the two teens went over their booty.  

     “Hundred-twenty bucks!”  Tico waved the money in the air.  “All right!  See, I told you we should wait by the bank.  Only people with money come by there.”

     Ricky sat silent, listlessly going through the wallet.  He might not have pulled the trigger, but the memory of the man falling, and the blood, played over and over again in his conscience.  “Maybe we shoulda checked if the guy was dead,” he finally ventured, not looking up at his friend.

     He could feel Tico’s scorn.  “Are you kiddin’?  He’d better be.  That way he won’t be able to tell anybody who we are.  Hey, you’re not chickenin’ out on me, are you, man?”

     There was a hint of menace in the voice, and even though Ricky didn’t believe for a minute that his oldest friend would hurt him, he automatically shook his head.  Tico, apparently satisfied, went back to the money, and Ricky pulled out several pictures from a tucked away end of the wallet.

     A blond woman who looked a lot like the guy, with a husband and two kids.  Sister, maybe?  Ricky couldn’t remember if the man wore a ring or not.  A picture of the man with another guy, this one shorter and with dark, curly hair.  An older picture, black and white, of serious parents and two light-haired children, a girl and a boy.  Family and friends.  

     Ricky murmured an excuse and hurried out into the communal bathroom in the hallway to throw up as quietly as he could.  

     _Starsky, come find me--_  

     It had been like an automatic message playing over and over again in his mind.  Maybe if he played it enough, it would be heard.

     His face rested in something thick and wet, and Hutch tried to shift his head away from the puddle, only succeeding in sending another shockwave through his skull that threatened to split it open.  Okay, bad idea.  

     _Starsky, come--_

     No matter how bad things were, how miserable he was, his partner’s presence always helped.  It eased his mind about dying alone, it gave him hope for survival.  And it made him feel loved, cared for, taken care of.  Even in the midst of drug withdrawal hell, the memory of Starsky’s arrival was comforting, strengthening.  And not only then.  More times than anyone should’ve needed it, Starsky always managed to come to the rescue just in time.

     _Starsky--_

     _His mind wandered in the whiteness, no longer tied to his body, or to pain, or to the car that he was trapped under.  It didn’t matter any more; he was free of it, drifting away._

_      There were regrets.  He hadn’t wanted to go, had fought hard to stay and hang on.  He was certain that they would be looking for him, that one in particular wouldn’t rest until he was found.  But at the bottom of Topanga Canyon, camouflaged under the wreck of his car, he had little hope of discovery any time soon.  And his last hope exhausted, beyond thirst and exhaustion, he let himself float away.  Either that or go mad as he hung upside down in the blazing sun, under the hot metal that crushed his leg.  Alone and in relentless pain.   _

_      ‘Oh, God.  Starsk, I wish. . .’  _

_      And then that was gone, too.   _

_      The sounds punctured his dreams, and he frowned a tiny bit as he lay and passively, disinterestedly listened to them.  Little sounds at first, and then a yell that was strangely familiar.  It was hard to muster interest inside his dreamy whiteness, though, and so he let that go. _

_      Then something touched him.   _

_      Not just touched, but caressed, careful of his sunburned face.  It cast a shadow on him, blocking the searing white sun, and not yet daring to presume, he nevertheless gave in to his curiosity and struggled to open his eyes enough to see this new arrival.   _

_      “Hutch.  Hutch!  Hey.” _

_      It couldn’t be. . . He blinked up at the face above him, squinting a little against the burning of his eyes.  Then the burning got worse as Starsky above him broke into an overcome smile, staring at him as if he was a more welcome sight to Starsky than his partner was to him.   _

_      “We made it, partner.”  The words alone smoothed away the ordeal of the last few days, sending all his terror away into the receding whiteness.  Hutch was firmly grounded now in that touch, that voice, the blue eyes that crinkled with affection as they watched him.  _

_      Hutch tried to say something back, to tell Starsky that he was back and staying, but his heat swollen tongue and parched lungs managed nothing more than “St--” before turning into a cough.   _

_      Those gentle hands shifted, soothing away his anxiety to respond, and the moisture that he’d somehow found for a tear.  “Don’t cry, Hutch,” Starsky whispered.  “You need the water.  You can cry later, I promise.  Just take it easy now, let me take care o’ you.”   _

_      For answer, Hutch turned his cheek fractionally against the hand that cupped it, his eyes closing in gratitude.  He still hurt and was hot and so very, very thirsty, but it would be all right now.  Even if he died here, he would do it without the grief that filled him at the thought before, of dying alone and lost.  No matter what, Starsky was there to face it with him, and Starsky had promised to take care of everything.  His rescue had already been solely in his partner’s hands before, true.  But Hutch gave himself, his life over willingly now, drifting no longer in whiteness, but in the knowledge that he was finally safe.   _

_      And, Hutch added with a drowsy smile as Starsky further curled protectively around him, the knowledge that he had never really been lost at all.     _

     The beach had come up empty, at least the part where Starsky knew his partner usually went to, and some distance beyond that, just in case.  The bank had been a little more helpful, providing record of a deposit and withdrawal the evening before.  It had been a Friday and the bank had been open late, and the transaction time was 7:12.  It was, apparently, the last anyone had seen of his partner.  

     Frowning at that bit of news, particularly the information about the withdrawal, Starsky set out to check all the restaurants approximately between the bank and Venice Place.  After that. . . maybe he’d think about that in a little while.  

     Tico was sprawled on his filthy cot, sleeping off the effects of the latest hit he’d gotten from V.  He had no family to look after and a drug habit to support, and all his money--legally and illegally gotten--seemed to go to that now.  Ricky, he had a mother and a sister, and every bit he could scrape together went to them.  Usually it involved small snatches, shoplifting, maybe a threat of a knife sometimes that they never followed through on.  But never a gun.  Never killing.  

     He paced Tico’s tiny room.  What would he do?  Any hopes he’d had of getting out of that place, of getting his family out of there, had been shot to pieces the night before, literally.  They weren’t even sure the man was dead.  He could’ve died overnight, or still be lying there hurt, undiscovered, dying.  Ricky took a step toward the door.  

     And yet. . .Tico was his best friend.  If Ricky said anything at all, the fuzz would find them.  And even if they believed Ricky’s story, that would still mean that Tico would be in big trouble, maybe even in prison for life.  How could he do that to the _compadre_ he’d grown up with since they were babies?

     Ricky turned away from the door and began to pace again, confused and torn.  

     Hutch felt sluggish, cold, and even heavier and more miserable than before.  His whole body ached, but his head was the one being steadily pounded into the ground.  He bit his tongue until it tasted salty with blood, trying to mute the agony that crashed back and forth in his skull.  _Starsk, please. . ._ He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out against pain like that.  

     Yet he wasn’t alone, not really, even if he felt like it.  Starsky _was_ there, sometimes a voice in his head that he didn’t even recognize immediately as his partner’s, it was so much a part of him.  Sometimes just the memory of that grin.  Sometimes lingering touch.  But always the trust.  If Starsky couldn’t be there with him in flesh, he was there in Hutch’s soul.  And maybe that was why his partner always arrived before it was too late, because they were too connected for him not to.  

     The thought strengthened his resolve, and Hutch dug in to wait, however long it took.  And then his mind was drifting again, to other times, other desperate situations.

_      He didn’t even realize Starsky was there for a moment, so focused was he on the woman who screamed in his face and pounded on his chest, jarring his injury and turning his legs to sand with each blow.  Even when they pulled Diana away from him, his eyes remained stuck to her, and all he could think to say was the mindless, “I’m sorry” that kept coming out his mouth.   _

_      “Oops,” he murmured to himself, the world rapidly going out of focus.  “Oops.”   _

_      And then somebody was holding him up, because without Diana pressed up against him, he was sliding down to the ground.  Worried, frantic hands, matching the voice.      “Where ya goin’?”   _

_      His mind still wasn’t tracking.  Wasn’t it obvious where he was going?  “I think I’ll sit down.”  He couldn’t stand if his life depended on it.  The feeling of blood soaking the towel under his grasp made his knees give out completely. _

_      “Not here,” Starsky pleaded, drawing Hutch’s attention, and he concentrated on his partner for the first time, on the firm support under his good arm, the careful hand holding on to his injured arm.  Looking at him, scared to death.  He tried to smile for his friend, but that took away his concentration from staying upright, and he folded into Starsky’s arms.   _

_      There were a few lightheaded moments of lifting and movement, and Hutch closed his eyes, dizzy.  What had happened?  He was in the shower, and there was someone with a knife--wasn’t that a movie?  Then Diana screaming at him. . . Hutch turned his face into Starsky’s warm shirt, shutting the memory out.  He’d figure that part out later, but for now, he needed anchoring, and his partner’s solid presence was something he could hang on to and surround himself with, shutting out the screams and pain and panic.  Perhaps understanding, Starsky wrapped him closer, warmer in his embrace.   _

_      Then he was lowering Hutch onto the sofa, one hand easing his head down.  It felt good to be lying down, but he kept one fistful of Starsky’s shirt, just in case.  Without warning, the towel he’d used for makeshift bandage was unwound from his shoulder, and he felt the warm blood again begin to flow, the only heat on his cold, wet skin.  His head felt like it was going to float away on the strange sensation.   _

_      The new pressure applied to the injury brought him back with a snap, waking all his nerves with pain again.  He groaned, trying to pull away from it. _

_      A warm hand stroked his wet hair, and he could hear Starsky’s voice even though he couldn’t understand it.  It was gentle, reassuring, as always, and he slowly relaxed back into it with trust, his body reacting almost reflexively and his mind following with the knowledge that he was safe, in good hands.   _

_      The touch skimmed his neck, then twined with his hand, and he attempted to squeeze back in return, finally opening his eyes a little.  The room was still doing a slow spin, impossible to keep in focus, but the nearest image, his partner’s face, was mostly clear.  He saw his partner grin, and thought he grinned back.  Starsky was there, Diana wasn’t, and that was all he wanted to make sure of. _

_      His shoulder throbbed again sickly, and he was too exhausted to keep fighting the pain, but Starsky would take care of everything, that one thing he knew, and Hutch was grateful to let him.  Trust was much stronger than his will or body, and as unconsciousness dragged him away, Hutch felt no fear, only solace.   _

     Always present.  Trust, belief, strength.  Hutch shivered and clung to the memories, the only thing keeping him there anymore.  

     The blond woman smiled at Ricky from the photo.  A sister, maybe, like his own.  She had two children, too, also a boy and girl like he and Sara.  Family.  

     And the other picture.  They had to be good friends, Ricky knew, from the way their arms were slung around each other, the smiles they shared.  It was like he and Tico had been once, before the drugs and the guns.  Someone else who cared about the blond man just as Ricky worried now for his friend.  Except that Tico had chosen to do what he’d done.  The blond man hadn’t.  He’d had the gun; maybe he was a bad guy.  But that still didn’t ease Ricky’s guilt.  He didn’t look like a bad guy, and besides, that didn’t necessarily mean he deserved to bleed his life out in a filthy alley.  

     Ricky made his decision.  With one last remorseful glance at Tico, he slipped out of the room, heading for the phone at the end of the shabby hallway.  Halfway there, he suddenly grew conscious of the wary eyes and ears around him.  He turned, heading down the steps to find a payphone.  

     The man could be dead already, he knew that.  In fact, Ricky was pretty sure.  Tico had gotten him in the head, after all.  But still, if he didn’t call, he’d never be able to live with himself.  Maybe at least he could at least help the man get a decent burial, and even that would help his family and friends at least a little.

     Spying a payphone at the end of the street, Ricky slouched deep into his jacket and headed for it.  

     Starsky had tried every restaurant within a half-dozen blocks of the route between Venice Place and the bank, with no success.  No one recognized Hutch’s picture or description.  Some promised they would ask their evening staff when they came on duty later that day, but for now, Starsky had done all he could in that direction.

     He returned to the Torino, only to pound the steering wheel in frustration.  How many times had he done this now?  Four, five?  It killed him a little more each time, the search without knowing what or even if he’d find.  Soloing.  Being scared to death.  Sure, he’d always made it in time so far, but that was utterly no guarantee for the next time.  And worst of all was the thought of Hutch out there possibly hurt and waiting for him, not even knowing if he’d come or not.  Starsky _hated_ that.  

     Not that the tables had never been turned.  Calling Hutch in the drugged daze after Bellamy had poisoned him, he’d passed out knowing that help was on the way, that Hutch would get there soon and take care of him.  And when Simon Marcus’ followers had put him through hell, one torture after another, Starsky had all but survived on the thread of hope of Hutch’s finding him.  Sometimes they seemed to specialize in last minute saves, like some cheesy cop show, but it was more than that.  It was trust that wouldn’t let them quit until the other made it; hope that came from knowing the other was out there, looking; strength that came from the assurance that someone was as desperate to find him as he was to be found.  And if that worked two ways, then surely Hutch would hold out for him until Starsky could find him.  He _had_ to.  

     Starsky started up the car and turned it abruptly back to the bank.  That was the last clue he had, and so he’d go back and start over from there, try to retrace his partner’s steps.  Hutch had to be out there, somewhere, and that meant Starsky could find him.  

     “Zebra Three.”

     He picked up the mike.  “Zebra Three,” he acknowledged.  

     “Just received a witness report of a mugging from last night, alley on Cabrillo Avenue.  Victim’s description: 6’ male, 175, blond hair, possibly armed.  Victim reportedly injured and still in alley.  Match on Missing Officer; will you confirm?”

     Starsky’s heart began to hammer.  That was the street Hutch’s bank was on, and anyway, that description. . . “Zebra Three, on my way.  Request ambulance also respond.”

     “10-4, Zebra Three.  Good luck.”

     The last was unconventional, but he appreciated it.  He’d have slammed the mars light on, but he was already so close.  In fact, he’d probably passed the alley once or twice already that day.  Starsky swallowed, tried not to think of that.  _Hang on, Hutch.  If you’ve hung on this far, you know I’m comin’.  You darn well better not give up on me now._

     Hutch stirred feebly, trying to ease the oppressive weight of pain that had settled over him, worst at his head, but felt all the way down his legs.  The only good thing was that the cold had penetrated down to his bones now, and that numbed his body a little.  All except his head, which still passionately ached, not even lessening with time.  He’d have groaned, cried, something, except his body refused him even that much.  

     He lay, suspended from reality, too tired to think anymore, and waited for something he could no longer even visualize.  And yet, as his world distilled into the single fact that he hurt, there remained also an edge of pure, dogged trust, without informed cause, simply _there_.  

     Noises around him got louder, and he didn’t notice with any more than passive interest until something moved his head, lifting it, and the vicious pain from the jarring squeezed tears out of dry eyes and a groan from his parched throat.  But when his head was let back down, it was on something soft,warm and dry, and the pain dimmed.  Surprised, Hutch gathered the scraps of his remaining reason and turned outward as many of his senses that still obeyed him.  The warmth and softness spread over and was tucked around him--blanket?  His body, clenched against the cold, began to respond to the treatment, letting go of tension, which made his head feel a little clearer and reduced the pounding.  Had he been found? 

     And then someone huddled close against his blanketed shoulders, warm breath blowing against his face, familiar fingers brushing against his cheek, and even though the voice was garbled and faint and his eyes refused to help to identify their source, he knew.   

     _Thank God._

     And with an internal smile and the contented satisfaction that he’d been right and all was well, Hutch relinquished his own fight and gratefully let himself be rescued.  

     “Officer?”

     The tentative query brought Starsky’s head up as he walked out of the hospital.  Hutch was safely on the road to recovery from the bad graze to the head, and sleeping for long stretches of time, so Starsky had finally accepted Dobey’s, er, suggestion to go home and take a shower and a nap.  But the teen who stood nervously to one side of the door, anxiously watching him, drew his interest, and he stepped over to the kid.  “I’m Detective Starsky.”

     The kid couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17, a ghetto kid, judging from the clothes, Puerto Rican maybe.  On the streets, Starsky would’ve watched a kid like that warily, suspecting gang connections, but the kid in front of him was so ill-at-ease--no, scared--that Starsky relaxed into reassuring mode.  

     “Didya want to speak to me?” he asked amicably.  

     The kid nodded.  Starsky waited.  Bright green eyes finally looked up at him.  “I was the one who called.  About Detective Hutchinson.”

     Surprise, gratitude, and suspicion followed each other quickly.  Starsky’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  “Then I owe you a thank you.  Without your help, my partner could’ve died.”  A tactful pause.  “How did you know?”  
     “I was there.”  A whisper.

     Starsky made a face, suddenly suspecting how this was going.  “You weren’t a witness.”  It wasn’t a question.

     “No.”  He could barely hear the kid now.

     Starsky was surprised at how calm he felt.  “Were you the one who did it?”  

     “Uh-uh.  Tico did.”  The kid was looking at him again, but there was grief in his eyes, not anger.  

     “Tico--he’s your friend?”

     That seemed to open some dam.  “My best friend.  I didn’t want to hurt anybody, but ever since he’s been on those drugs V gave him, he ain’t the same person.  I got a family to look after, I try to stay clean.  I don’t wanna get him in trouble, but I’m scared, and I saw your picture in the cop’s wallet.  He’s your friend, like Tico.  Tico wasn’t always like that.  We never used guns or hurt anybody before--”

     Starsky put up a hand finally to stop the flow of words.  He got most of the picture now, and while the temptation was there to slam the kid up against the wall and make him suffer as much as Hutch had, he didn’t.  He sighed, rubbed his eyes, conscious of the kid watching him.  “You know I’m gonna have to arrest you,” he finally said.  

     A miserable nod.  

     “Tico, too.  But from what you told me, the DA’s probably gonna go easy on you.  Tico will have it a lot tougher.”  

     Another silent nod.  

     Starsky winced.  He wished he could just get angry and blow off the steam, but instead, all he seemed to feel mostly was sad.  Almost unwillingly, he added, “Look, I’m not sayin’ it’s likely, but maybe that’s what Tico needs to get himself straightened out, y’know?”

     A glance up, with a tiny bit of surprised hope this time.  

     “C’mon, kid,” Starsky said quietly, grabbing a handful of the kid’s jacket at the shoulder and pulling him along to the Torino.  Friendship was a powerful thing, he already knew that, but it came in many ways, shapes, and forms.  Hutch’s stubborn faith in him, and the kid’s ideas of friendship, had both helped save his partner’s life, and Starsky couldn’t turn his back on that.  Hutch would understand that.  

     With a last glance at the hospital and a silent reminder to himself that Hutch was steadily improving, Starsky settled his charge in the back seat and truned toward Parker Center.  

     Two floors above him, Starsky’s partner turned over in comfortable sleep, relaxed and safe.  


End file.
